Silent film
by Formerly-ForlornShadowlily009
Summary: IchigoxRenji A new twist on an AU fic. Not all movies follow the same script. After so many years the players get tired of doing the same routine over and over again.... Its not surprising if you catch something that wasn't there before, that's when the r
1. Chapter 1

It was a flicker upon the screen, an out of place occurrence that caught the youth's eye. A sudden flash of gray that caused him to glance back with a startled perception. He turned his head and met the face that should not have been starring out into the isles. The face grinned, pale skin captured by the grainy black and white of the screen. It was a smile that should not have happened, an expression that was surreal. The youth stood stunned and watched as the movie played, the actor of long ago twisting his face back into his forlorn visage and returned to his destined place. The unexpected movement was gone just as fast as it appeared. A flicker upon the screen, a roll of the shaking film that obscured the flurry of hands as the two lovers embraced upon the 1950's movie theater screen. The boy starred and in the back of his mind heard the words the old man had spoken from behind the dusty counter," Not all movies follow the same script. After so many years the players get tired of doing the same routine over and over again... Its not surprising if you catch something that wasn't there before, that's when the real magic of theater begins."

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Blue was his opposite

His solution to the raging heat of the color red

Blue was his insanity, his vice, and his final solution

It was his burden

Blue surrounded him,

It was in the walls,

Running down streets

And splashing the sky with its forlorning essence

It was depression, Subtle sweetness

Perfect softness

And complete destitute

Blue was his enigma,

His source of absurdity.

Contemplated depth

Its shimmering surface and its layers of deceit

Blue was pure insanity,

It lacked the strange allure of blushing red

It deprived itself of passion so fiery

Completely dependent on his swaying mood

Forget romance,

Deny smoldering embrace,

And completely ignore the stigma of rushing hatred.

Blue wouldn't submit itself to such passions

Blue was her color,

Her song

Her name

and worst her alluring eyes

It wasn't until he was wasted

Wrapped in a veil of depression

Struggling to comprehend the colors before his starry eyes

That he realized it

Black Lace On Blue Down

Secret places,

A fringe upon skin so soft

An arms dealer of life

Black Lace On Blue Down

The magic of the sureal

The god damn race to survive

with lies that were all around

Black Lace On Blue Dawn

Oh what thing

So miserable, prettier and younger

But still forever Black Lace on a girl named Dawn

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The screen flickered alive, the old elevator music dimming into the darkness as the lights ebbed into a dull glow. The screen was illuminated, it's redolent shine a hazy flame. Commercials rolled upon the iridescent screen like waves, relics from long ago. An advertisement for soft drinks and lemon drops that danced in sync with bags of popcorn shuddered to life with stuttering steps. It was magical, the appeal from long ago that snared him. He sat in the dark movie theater, a landmark of a dilapidated building, and watched the opening credits of a sub classic film. The isles were littered with cob webs, broken bottles, corrosive lollipop stems, oily stains from discarded popcorn kernels, black swirls soiled with real, decade old butter, garnished with a layer of dust that was slabbed onto the polyester tweed chairs. The air was thick, a fog that refused to leave. The pungent smell borne from thousands of bodies packed into the broken chairs, dirty hands, and fingers swooning dollops of popcorn into sour red gullets had seeped into the walls of the theater. Refusing to vacate, refusing to disperse, refusing to slink into the woodwork the smell still lingered. It was like breathing in the smell of pumping gas or the aroma produced by a marker top, noxious but comforting.

That was what he thought anyway.

The previews were done, the final dancing soda disappearing as that sad ballad of classical music that he longed to hear roared upon the screen. A string quartet of violins, lazy saxophones, soothing trumpets, deep voiced cellos, and thumping drums cascaded down the isles and played among his ear drums. He was in heaven, trapped in a movie that would never end. The title, cursive and swirled, flashed upon the screen: Black Lace On Blue Dawn. His film, the reason he had arrived at such a dead end place. The credits began, names and extra add ons that made a movie a movie. The list of people that had labored over Black Lace On Blue Dawn fluttered onto the screen and he mouthed them like he was screaming into the audience.

Produced by Aizen Tsubasa,

Directed by Uma Hiroka

Screenplay by Urahara Kisuke.

It was his favorite movie, a classic black in white. Black Lace On Blue Dawn. A meaningful title, a movie about a woman named Dawn. He was drawn to this film, its subtle grasping at the illusionary, it vision of yester years. It had premiered in 1929, and at the time was Black Lace On Blue Dawn was a rare treasure in an age when movies were majority silent. It starred no named actors and created soft buzz among the pages of advertisement. It had ran for little more than two weeks, enumerating mixed reviews. Still, Black Lace On Blue Dawn was a revolutionary film, a first in its time and the only film starring his favorite actor. The movie was a fantasy, a story written upon the pages of time.

That was what he thought anyway.

The screen dulled once again, the names fading away. He slouched back in his broken seat and was lost in the opening scene. A snowy mountain hill, barren of trees and isolated from all life. There, nestle in the blanket of white was a small, homely cottage. An object that was out of place of the giant sheet of white. He waited, the words that would be spoken ready on is tongue. He counted the seconds, watching as the camera changed views and zoomed in through a window.

Soon the heroine of the film would appear. Shimmering in a black, laced dress, hair curled into a short crop she would saunter onto the screen, bitter, head thrown back in angst. She would fix a cup of tea in a cheap, chipped mug. Her nails painted, the lacquer polish shinning as she would grasp the cup. She would whimper, tears rolling down her moonlight cheeks as a flashback would show upon the screen and the audience would grasp. The memory of the fallen heiress, a grieving daughter, would reveal the film's hero.

It was the reason he watched the film, occupied the small deserted theater that in year 2007 was approaching the state of complete destruction. Until that day, however, he would continue mouth the words he had memorized. He would continue to watch the black, laced woman sulk in the cold, cottage kitchen. He would always dream of the actor that he loved.

For the Oasis, and its never ending showing of classic films, would continue to air and he would be there to watch the film. The theater he was occupying was beyond old. The Oasis had opened its doors in 1949 in the small town of KaraKura hoping to bring in revenue to the slowly, dying town. The owner Toshiro Kaien had established the theater with the dream of making the town a glittering suburb of comfort. With hopes of saving the town and securing a small fortune for himself, Toshiro Kaien opened the Oasis and began to show only the most worthy of movies.

With polished cheery red oak door and a grand chandelier, the Oasis boasted refinement and offered a sense of hope from the world's haggards. For years the theater was revered, praised upon the covers of magazines, newspapers, and treated like a luxury resort. World War II had taken its toll on the small town and any form of distraction was instantly raved. The place had slinked into the spot of fame and made stakes at staying in the limelight. With amazing service and the first non silent films, the theater surpassed the other entertainment establishments that had resided in KaraKura Town. The Oasis was composed of two viewing rooms, beating both the Angelica and The Pan theaters. These theaters had been the first in Karakura and only possessed one large screen each. The viewing room themselves of the Oasis however were small, the theater only showings two films a day in its grand two screened building. It had done well despite its lack of showing. The Oasis had drawn in the much needed country tourists who poured into the theater every Saturday night. It seemed like Toshiro Kaien had succeeded, the town was prospering, and the owner of Oasis housed a small fortune. Then, it all went away.

"Another sun, soaked season fades away" The heiress whispered to the snowy mountains and sneezed her eyes shut. Her cup of tea crashing to the floor. The warm liquid escaped fro the shattered cup, seeping into the carpet and causing the heiress to remember another memory. Her shining tears flicking into the flashback. A party, a ball, a man without a name.

The cutomers stopped coming, the theater would only show black and whites. By the time 1954 black and white films had lost their novelty. They had become outdated and suffered the same death as silents. Color had been born, and black and white with shades of grey had become useless for entertaining. Knowing this, the owner refused to play anything other than black whites. Soon another theater was opened, The Bara, that drew in the customers that were seeking the razzle dazzle of colored films. The theater sunk into debt and despair. Its doors wearing away with time, its grand chandellier cracking and buring out, its viewing rooms becoming distorted and marred from the cruel touches of time. Workers quit, ignored their duties to keep the Oasis clean, as The Bara offered them better wages and a union contract. The viewing rooms became overcrowded with filth and left over debre. The chairs began to fall apart, the fabric ripping at the seems. The Oasis's owner, Toshiro Kaien eventually became a recluse, taking up resident inside the Oasis itself. Still, the Oasis refused to close. It had suffered through the decades, still playing the classics. Now in the year 2007 it had only one continuous customer.

That was why he was sitting there, staring at the hazy screen and dreaming about Jackal, the main hero that swoops the grieving heiress off her feet, only to betray her. The movie was a genre of romance and tragedy, an expression of the human mind. Love was not cut and paste and Jackal, with his desires for the ultimate lover, showed that through each line.

That was what he thought anyway.

For he had nothing better to do than lose himself in the past and the black eyes of a man than was alive only on the screen.

He never came to know the full name of the actor that portrayed Jackal. The credit had only shown a single name, Renji. He didn't know if this was actual name of the actor perhaps just a pen name. Either way the man was a ghost.

He had scavenged through the old movie programs looking for the debut of the actor only to turn up cold. All that there was, was dust. Where had the actor come from? Some distant land or some small country town thriving in rural poverty? Had he arrived in Seireitei, the county's film capital, hopping to make his fortune? The film was not foreign, it had been produced and directed in that notorious city. He knew that, the caretaker of the Oasis had shared his flimsy knowledge of the film. From under that worn, seam split sandal hat he had been given the production date and the film's origin. Nothing more, nothing revealing, nothing helpful.

He needed to know, he needed to know more about Jackal. Had he wanted to acted, or was it all just a dream? Where had Renji the Jackal disappeared to?

This was what he thought about as he watched the movie. Black Lace on Blue Dawn. Jackal was a lover's dream.

That was what he thought anyway.

Still he wondered about the depth of the man. The only color he had ever seen him in was black and white. What was the actor's eye color, eye color, skin color? Was he as pale as Dawn? Was his hair black as the screen projected or was it sultry brown or smoking red? What color lingered among those black orbs of the screen. What was the man's name.

He needed to know, he needed to know more about Jackal. Had he wanted to acted, or was it all just a dream? Where had Renji the Jackal disappeared to?

That was what he though about, day after day, credit after credit, gray kiss and gray kiss. That was what he thought about two hours later when the screen dimmed and the shaky credits rolled upon the screen. He stood up, slowly, his hands moving to clap. He would strike them together, listen to the sound of his solo applause and what if they could hear. If he could hear it. That was what he always did. It was his routine.

He would leave the theater, throwing away his trash in old metal trash can. He would linger though, his feet stopping in confusion, his mind twisting between the action of staying or leaving. Everytime he would do it. Everytime he would stay waiting, staying to stare one more time and the screen. He would do it, just like he was doing now. He was staring, hoping, and thinking. Who was that man?

He shook his head, forcing his feet to stop their confusion and continue their trek. He passed through the swinging doors, remembering to duck under the broken rafter of the Oasis's hall way. Every time he had to remember to duck or the beam would strike his head. The first time he had visited the Oasis it had struck him. Now the thought vibrated through his mind and he tilted his head to side.

The hallway of the Oasis was the decaying mirror image of the screening room. The wall paper was pealing, the carpet ripped in places, the wood warped. Still, it was a classic.

That was what he thought anyway.

He marched through the weakly lit hallway staring at the old movie posters: The Red Shoes, Valley of the Dolls, Seven Samurai. He had seen them all. He entered the concession room where the old man sat staring at the passing cars through the yellow glass. He striped hat would be tipped to th side, his eyes hidden from view. H would be watching, just as he knew he would always be.

He looked at the old man and turned his head to watch the passing cars. It had started to rain. Steam from the hot side walk drifted into the air, mixing with the falling water. He turned his head back and watched to the old man who stood watching him. He smiled, and turned to leave, knowing the voice that would carry him through the door.

"Goodbye Ichigo. I'll see you tomorrow."

He stopped at the door, his hand holding the rusted doorknob. He needed to know, he needed to know more about Jackal. He would always come.

"Hai. Same time everyday old man." Hes aid and left the Oasis. He was Kurosaki Ichigo and he had just watched his favorite film Black Lace on Blue Dawn. He would keep watching and keep wondering. He would keep starring at the never changing screen.

That was what he though anyway.

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A short prelude. hope someone likes it. this is just a pilot chapter


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own bleach but i do own this story

Chapter Two: Spare Time.

Warnings AU, adult themes, yaoi.

Thank you my reviewers! I really appreciate the feedback.

m3tfr34k-thank you i shall to update soon.

Gravy Baby-thank you! I recently read Faulkner's As I Lay Dying and I loved his repetition of words to express character. I shall update very soon.

This chapter questions self existence.

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Ichigo.

Ichigo. Kurosaki Ichigo. I-chi-go! His name was Ichigo. That was clear, it was shimmering, shinning in his head. His name was Ichigo.

At least he knew that. At least, at least he understood that. It was his achievement, his grand advancement into life and the surrounding world. It was his crowning accomplishment in a time where knowledge of one's self was a doormat to the path of idiocracy. He knew his name, knew its meaning, Its very definition. He was Ichigo, he was Kurosaki, he was "is". For he couldn't be anything else, not it, or then or them. He was Ichigo, I-chi-go.

Quite a feat really. Considering that most people stumbled around, hardly knowing themselves. He could see them struggling with their own names, no comprehension of themselves.They were hollow empty shells. Their souls corrosive, struggling to stay a float in a mass of knowing hate. They hated themselves and others, unable to make changes, set to the mindset of their ignorance. They were disgusting, repulsive shuttering black moths. Blind, covered in grizzly bristles and gargantuan eyes. They were revolting, causing his skin to shiver and his words to stutter.

They were "them" they were not "is". They were was.

He was "is". He had to be, otherwise what was he? He had no other definition, no other ability that to possess the knowledge that he was is. He had no skill, no worthy attribute.

Yes he knew his name was Ichigo. Ichigo. Ichigo Ku-ro-sa-ki!

His mother was not Ichigo, not Kurosaki, not "is". She was "was". She had been every since that day when she left him. She had been "is" but...that titled drifted away when she left him outside the theater. The Oasis, such a funny name. Such a strange, funny place. The Oasis was a mix, stuck between is and was. The Oasis, his Oasis. His mother had thrown him away. Left him standing outside the theater as she turned her head, her hair shining in the sun. It was always shining, it blond color radiating. Once he thought her hair was the sun and tried to catch. That was so long ago. She had left him, pressed her cold lips upon his brow, her facial muscles working into a grimace as something wet slipped past his cheeks. Had he been crying? Was it her that was quivering with tears? Or was the sun weeping?

Jackal, Jackal was strange too. Renji was then. However, Jackal was now. Jackal was his dream, his Oasis. He was not one of the blind moths. Not the weeping sun or the clicking of high heels as they walked away from him. Jackal was the seducing comfort. That creator of ephemeral calmness that is experienced only in the realm between reality and slumber. He would lie in that realm, half in half out, and find his comfort in the gray. He would become filled the gray and empty himself. He would become clean, cuddled in the arms of the mixing colors. There would be no light, no darkness, only that irremediable gleam of the gray. There would be no shallow cries that seemed to be coming from his lips. Had they been, or had those grievances come from something alien and other than his own throat? Jackal was alway there, his Oasis.

He would see the man today. He would watch him frozen upon that screen, lost in the void of thens, is, and was. Jackal would embrace her, thow her upon the bed, and merge with Dawn. Dawn, a fickle young female that had the world on her finger and Jackal sucking at her heart. His mother was once like Dawn, her skin so pale, her eyes so fiery.

He would love to trade places with Dawn, to become "then". He wanted to, to merge with the flow of gray. He couldn't though, he was is and Jackal was just a character. He could never be then. Neither of them would every be then. All he could do is lay in that false slumber and cast away all until he was emptied. Cast away those sounds, those wet patches, and the images of his hands grasping at the disappearing comfort of his mother.

That was what he thought anyway. His name was Ichigo. Ichigo kurosaki.

He was a funny thing, such a strange, funny creature. They all shouted it. Kids at his high school were absurd, crazy in their titles of him. He was not strange, freakish, or daffy. He was Ichigo. How could he be anything else? Still, they shouted it with vigor and laughing faces. They all stared at him as he would stare back. Them glazing outwards and he glazed inwards. They were blind, horrible bugs that scuttled around. How he wanted to slap at them.

They could never glaze inwards. Not like he could. Only he could.

That was what he thought about, every day, all day. It was his routine.

He scrubbed his eyes with his hand, wiping away the weariness. It would not be good to show such things. He stared hazily back at his desk, creating drawings in the fake wood. It was particle board, a false interpretation of the real thing. He stared at the brown fakeness until the drawings went out of his eyes and his mind switched back on. Resting in front of him was his homework. It needed tending, it needed weeding, and pruning. He would have to fix it.

Chapter 3 English:In a well organized easy explain Homer's use of rhetorical devices in the Odessy.

Homer created sin, the sirens transforming flesh. Homer transformed men into beasts and beasts into immoral men.

His homework was taxing. The questions beyond his scope. He would stare at the question and wonder, wonder, and wonder. Homer was a sinner. He wanted to write that upon the page but he didn't. Instead he allowed the white of his paper to remain unsoiled. There was no reason to write.

Jackal was a sinner. The movie validating this assertion by the tears of the weeping Dawn. Had his mother weeped like Dawn? Possibly, it was a compatible assertion. They were both the same woman really, Dawn and mother. The titles interchangeable.

He would visit him again today, see to the questions burning inside his chest. He would have to finish his homework though. Complete the work and finish the things that needed doing. After he would stare at the white paper, he would fix dinner. His father was a doctor and sinner at the trade. He had told the man that, stared him down as he ate the food Ichigo prepared for him each day. He had told him that, his father, starring at him like a moth. His father was a moth, grasping at the lives of the injured. He would heal them, or leave them to die. His wings, glittering in inky drops of dew were brushing the wings of other moths, creating sin. Creating a great stirring of grotesque horror.

He had told the older Kurosaki that and his father reacted as the same. For he told him the same thing everyday. "You are a sinner father, you are mediator of death. You are a black moth."

"How do these dreams make you feel son?" The moth's eyes stared down at him. The white room was menacing, imprisoning. He tied down right? Wasn't there restraints on his hands?

"You are a sinner, father. You are a black moth."

"Why do you think that? Is that what your dreams say to you?" Those eyes were so black, so oily they were devouring him, slowly eating his insides. It hurt, his hands were bruising. Hi mind, oh his mind was so trembling.

"You are a sinner father, you are sinner."

"What do they tell you Ichigo?" Why ask such things of him? He was in the white room, the room that was always white.

"They scream the nasty words in my ears, prickling me with their flapping wings."

"Why do they do that?" Because you tell them to, the orderlies, you tell them to do such things. The moths, they swarm around your command, you throne a mountain of sin .

"Because they won't leave me alone."

"Why?" Because you ask of it, you and the white room, and the drippng of the Iv that is so like the clicking of her shoes.

Because, they just won't. "

"Why?" Just because.

"Because you allow it."

"Does that scare you, do you feel like you have lost control." I am.

"Yes, always, everyday."

"Good." I am always.

His father would trick him. His father would force the words from his throat. He had meant to lessen his father, to drive the wedge deeper, but instead it twisted. His father would win, his father would twist him. His father was a siren. He was a siren and Ichigo was the tumbling sea that rocked the boat ad sent it crashing into the rocks. He was the twisting water that offered only the identity of drowning. Ichigo was a victim and a murderer in one.

The alarming paleness of his paper frightened him. He needed to finish his homework. He brought the tip of his pencil to the surface and his answer. Minutes ticked by and his paper was filled. He grabbed his homework, the paleness swallowed up in the lines and shoved it deep inside his backpack. It was new, a messenger bag from Karakura's Ginza District. His father purchased the accessory for him recently. It was shiny, real leather, and inscribed with his name. His old one, the one he had hidden in the back of his closet was only four months old. It still smelled of fresh leather and its refulgence haunted him as he slept. His father was always replacing his thing when the slightest weathering presented itself. Still the smell lingers and the daunting squeaks of his buried things cause him to wake in the night. When he is frightened by the discarded, he will crack the closet open and allow them to breathe.

"Old is the appearance of irrational and degrading inferiority. Its better to throw away things before they start to turn."

"Is that what happened to mother? Did you cast her away."

"Your mother was tarnishing. A new model was needed."

It was a psychological development that needed tweaking, his father told him. It was justified, throwing away the old brought forth the desire for the new. Without such actions there would be no need for further advancement into the world. Without the desire to fix the tarnishing, the world would decay and crumble. Furthermore it was natural to want to prolong the aging progress by destroying the old.

To him, to Ichigo, the old meant the clicking.

Could you throw it away? Could you cast it down the stairs and hope it breaks its neck so you can bury it in the garden? Or would it find its place in your closet, squeaking like your back pack, and causing you to stare at the door for hours until the droning voice faltered off.

If he knew that, then his paper wouldn't be so white.

He would leave soon, forget his homework, the supper already fixed, the chime of six o'clock prompting him to make haste. He would leave the apartment, his new bag thrown over his shoulder, as his feet would find the ground and send him spiraling forward. He would then walk, sliding through the extravagance that surrounded his building, the gilded gold carpets, the brass furnishings, the sparkling, tier chandelier, the door hop that would tip his hat, and snarl inside his hating, moth body at the job he was confined to work. He would walk past the shops, past the foreign cars and banks, past the hotels, and the caged life until he left it all behind, and then he would walk, far, heavy, further, and further. He walk further, farther, more taxing until the bell from the grand clock struck six thirty and he would walk faster. His feet would be stomping, cracking the cement in false force and the earth would tremble, tremble so softly until his hands began to twitch. Small, tightly, jerking movements that would grow into spasms and then he would walk, he would walk, he would walk. He would walk until he would sink, his feet thumping to the surging pulse of the traffic. Then he would walk, walk fast past the skyscrapers until the new eclipsed, and the past came forth from the shadows to play. The buildings would fade into store facades of worn. Trash thrown about, the hum of the sirens blaring into his ears. It would build up, and then it would scream. The old, the dilapidated, the forgotten would scream until he was running. Running from the screams, the pavement forcing his feet to stutter over its buckled surface. Then he would scream loud, silently, internally until the madness of his running, of his screaming, of his terror until it would break. It would all break and crack, crumbling into a mess of shards and screaming. HE would gasp, his voice mouthing the non existent screams and he would fall.Then he would stop, his mouth dry, his eyes burning, and his mind clean.

He was empty, cleaned from the pains of everyday. So then he would stop, stop like he was doing now, his heaving quieting. He removed his hands from their spot on his quivering thighs and looked up. His eyes collided with the Oasis and the sandle hat was staring at him. The old man's eyes were burning with the hard, heated glaze of seeing, seeing him screaming. The eyes were burning through his and his stomach was clenching as the doors opened and the eyes, those hard, burning eyes were beseeching him. They were snaring him and he was pinned! Pinned to the riddled concrete, pinned to the scenery that sprung up around him. He was forced, his mind blank, his breath calm, to enter and he was doing so with the eyes of that hard glaze starring at him, setting him on fire. The clock was striking, the tull resonating through his organs. He was shaking, the sound rattling through his bones and shaking his organs. His heart was thumping to the beat, his lungs spasming to the beat, his brain twitching to beat of the tull. It was seven o'clock and the doors were open just for him. An invitation to the show, greeted and offered to his jerking hand by the eyes of the devil. The sandle hat's eyes visible only through the glass of the doors, but burning with desire of wanting him to enter.

So he would enter and his heart would stop for that one second as he passed over the threshold into the Oasis. He approached the old man, the eyes now simmering, the hard glare melting into the facade of the elderly. But still they were constantly looking out across the street and as he forced his mouth to open and expel," one for Black Lace on Blue Dawn."

"The bell is catching you close to night, the last tull is sounded."

"I know."

" There's plenty of room inside, the best seat in the house just for you." Would be the reply and his hands would never grasp onto that ticket for there was none. No ticket or receipt, just the opening to the viewing room and the thunderous roar of the opening credits. He would walk with no money in his pockets, no ticket in his hands, and with no voice as the eyes followed his descent into the heart of the theater. He would remain there until the movie passed and the tull sounded nine o'clock. For there was no ticket, no reason to receive one, no reminder that he was there.

If he was not there by the dull tull of seven the door would not open. The movie would play with him locked outside, the doors never opening for him to enter. He would be pinned, stoned to a silent ridiculous death by those eyes until the screaming returned and he would run away screaming into the night. The feeling of all that he expelled soaking back into his skin, until somehow he would run, and run, and run back into the confines of apartment. He would be locked inside the doors of his house, the screaming pounding on the doors to let it in and devour him. The moths fluttering around his windows, their oily eyes absorbing him. He would scream, and scream, and scream until he would become lost, lost to the whiteness of his homework and the single line that he had written.

Homer was a "was".


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three : Extras

Warnigs, AU Slash, yaoi, adult themes.

thank you my reviewer.

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So was he truly emptied? That thought raced through his head and struck him deep. His head cracked open, his insides utterly hopelessly, haplessly exposed. The thoughts racing through his brain; aching, draining astounded his will and he rose to the surface.

Could you remember Ichigo, what happened today? Dark, licking, devious; that lingering voice attacked.

Could you, could you glaze upon that page and retrace the actions that led you here? Can you still scream? Try it, burn your throat raw until you feel the pressure booming in your head, and then whiteness begins to sink back inside you. You know the feeling, that harsh cold sensation of drowning. It rises from the depths, the seats swirling away, the screen fading into submission until the blatant horror of the drowning surfaces. That it cascades over your throat, pinning you to the broken seats, and ripping your eyes open. Force it, beg it, plead with it to destroy before you realize-- trapped, swallowed, adsorbed into the whole-- Its the blindness, that click-clack of heels, and the beating pulse attacking you. Scream, scream, scream Ichigo!

Realize that its all fake. God kill him.

Oh how hard it was to ignore that preposterous voice inside him. That devastating hum of his conscious that sought to haunt and torture him. He was clean, he was perfect, he was in the theater. Therefore he should be punished, beaten for hiding from those moths. For escaping the screaming and the brushing of the wings. Locust, moths, demons that flied through the air to attack his body and feast on his sanity. Protect him from what he wanted. Spare him from suffering from that devouring of the soul. Those moths, those souls, that clicking of the heels! they crushed him until he was left shaking! Shacking in the theater and screaming away the old him!

Realize that its all fake.

Where you sane Ichigo? Where you sound? Or where you imprisoned in the white room? Is that truly a movie screen, or is that the clicking of the heels, the dripping of that iv?

Protect him! Protect him from him!

He shuttered, his eyes burning. The clicking noise resonating, returning, recurring, the white room was a behemoth of dirty images. Ignore the whites and linger in the sanity of the present. Remember what you are now Ichigo, I-chi-go!

He was emptied, he was calm, and he was safe from becoming a was. As long as he was in this room, safe from the outside, he was an is. He was Ichigo Kurosaki and Jackal was dancing for him. The man was spinning, casting the room into a daze of envy. One creature retreating as the other was pursuing in a fantastical whirl of limbs and silk.

He new it was all just symbolic, the dancing, the flutter of Dawn's eyes.

Sometimes he feared her.

Her lashes beating against her cheeks like the flapping of wings.

Sometimes he wanted to scream to Jackal, to forsake her one more time and flee her trap!

She was a ruse and a clever one at that. Run Jackal, run like him until the screaming stops.

He didn't though, Jackal would not be fooled or devoured hopelessly, and he would never cherish Dawn.

"Protect me from what I want. "

Jackal. Jackal whispered the sweet words.

They had just met.

This was Dawn's flashback, the mountains faded away and the barren snow transformed into colors of passion.

A garden party, a dance, a chance meeting between the socialite Dawn and the play boy Jackal.

" My father says that you are gambler."

"You would have thought that people had enough of silly rumors."

"You presume to much foresight."

"Clearly, I look around and I see that my foresight is accurate. They are all whispering their little heads off."

"I find it a method for invoking the truth."

"Sounds more like a method of cruel torture. Next you're going to tell me that beating people with clubs is commendable as long as it serves your purposes."

"As long as it does yield results Mister, Mister--"

"Jackal."

"Jackal? What came of name is that?"

"My last."

"Really? Well Mister Jackal, do you have a first name or are you too obscure to recall it?

"Nope. And you have quite a sharp tongue, I feel as if I have been mortally wounded and damaged beyond repair."

"Are you a gambler or a chauvinist? Perhaps a hopeless playboy? Or even a high class vagabond."

"If I was any of those you'd be in bushes by now."

Why did Dawn blush? She insinuated the conversation, deployed a ruse of insults and bitter remarks to inspire a reaction out of the staltic stranger. She would slap Jackal and storm off, her dress trail along the ground, her heels clicking as Jackal watched.

"Here's to goodbye." Jackal twisted this glass into the air, champagne swimming in bubbles.

What if you could ditch the logical Ichigo!

Stop it, stop it, stop it!

Or else?

Or else tomorrow is going to come too soon!

Or else?

Or else the sandal hat's eyes would be burning through him, inside him, scorching his soul and rotting away his eyes with that look of knowing.

He would know that you were not calmed by the movie. He would know that you were still screaming. He would know that solace and serenity had not attached itself to serendipity and fastened itself upon your mind. He would glare at you, his eyes unwavering, removed from their glazing at cars and their viewing of passing souls. He would deviate from his sullen dispassion and kill you ever so slowly!

Will you scream then?

No!

Why?

Because I'm clean! Because I'm here!

Why?

Because I don't want to be a moth!

The voice faded into the hum of the screen. Dawn continued her memories and Ichigo lost himself in the black and white.

Safety, security, blatant horror, and familiarity blared his sense of perception. He was bound, tied to the seat as something began to emerge from within him and slink along his skin. He wallowed in the somber tune of the film and the eerie calm that collected itself around him. He felt the prickling of his hairs, that cold splash of water as he sat staring at the screen, releasing a gasp of surprise as his breath contorted into sharp, violent blasts. He was suffocating, his hand twitching, twitching, twitching like those beating wings.

He was drowned, the noise mounting, the humming returning; building, cascading into a mountain of unpleasantness, discomfort soaking through his body, freezing his core until the crash came. It came swiftly, a tidal wave that left him seeing white and screaming into the theater. He was screaming, his voice flowing with the screen until that squishy, soft spot inside his mind broke and the fluid flowed out.

His hands gasped at himself, as he poured out of his shell and over his clasped hands. He was sliding away, slipping through the cracks in his fingers. Over his curved knuckles, down his arms in a red, sticky staining mess, to cascade down his shirt front and away from his body. He was melting, his body shaking, dissolving into the seat.

His face was stricken, pulled tight against his skin as a bright light burst inside his eye sockets and he saw that illuminating hum. His throat was raw, stretched, blood vessels bursting as the water was thrown over his tongue and down his throat.

His arms were jerking, sporadic spasms as the puncture came and he screamed, screamed, screamed. The silver pin sinking into his blood to inject him--such disillusionment--oh to inject him with that mercury and cyanide.

He was integrated.

That was when he felt that forceful push, the interjection of fluid squeezing inside his veins, searing his tissue, secreting, and eating his skin until he sucked back in, back inside his shell, inside his body, sucked back away and then the whiteness smithed him.

The nurse was standing over him.

The Big Nurse, the Red Nurse, his bloody, cherry red, can't bite me, sour apple Red Nurse.

She was standing over his bed, her eyes gleaming, her hard mechanical parts shining under the hum of the florescent lights. Their noise frightening, terrifying, roaring like a lion and curdling his brain into a mushy pile.

Think, think think!

The hard, metallic shine of her instruments buzzed with a silvery doom as she touch his skin, and felt the freezing tendrils of ice creep over his cheeks.

Her hands were twisted into gnarled stumps; imitation of clasped fingers. Her nails long, spiked, thorns of plastic and false perfection. They were cherry red, sour red; blood and guts red.

They were shiny, so sinister and shiny. Smooth, unblemished, scrapping his skin with that soft light touch that she loved to scare him with. They were trailing along his cheek, cascading snippets of venom to linger along his face and burn him!

Her outfit was stark white, its color inducing the smell of bleach and the coughing of the antiseptic nausea. She had been shifting; he could discern through the stinging pain that she was putting away her inward machine. Her face was crooked, her lips set lopsided, her eyes glowing blood and guts red, hard machine red; slice you up all bloody gorgeous.

She was hardening, putting away her twisting steel intestines and parts and employing that false skin. She was fake; a cold, bestial appliance. Her skin to tight, to cold, to rigid. It had not been set right, she must have set it back on in a haste after some disturbance.

She smiled down upon him, and he died.

Her face was adjusting as she moved, the skin and muscles flexing with the inner chew of her tongue. She lifted her hands, tugging at the plastic organ until it settled into its proper place. Her lips were cherry red, her eyes hard glass, her nose small, and her skin white as frost.

She was completely hard.

She twisted those fake lips into an apathetic smile and released a goosh of air. She was pretending to swoon over his body and fuss with his pillows so that Dr. Klipspringer would not frown upon her stone features with discredibility. As she pressed her chest so close to him, he inhaled the scent of oil and sweat. Sickening, the residue swooshed along in tiny, ultra fine beads that jumped along his throat and settled in his pores.

He felt the weight of lead pressing harder on his larynx until he felt he had lost his ability to scream. Her nails trailed along his collar bone an he could not help it! Then realized that he could still exhale that terror

She arched her back, turning her neck until --he swore-- it turned a full revolution to check for the presence of the doctor.

He was not there.

She snapped her neck back into correct position with a sickening, bone cracking snap. She leaned forward, her muscle tensing in a time reaction-- mimicking the result of muscles tendons flexing-- until her face was hovering above his. Then she smiled--exposing the second hidden jaw that he knew she contained--and he couldn't help himself, he couldn't stop himself!

He shivered.

Her teeth were razors, sharp, and protruding at a jagged angle that exclaimed "I'm going to rip you open". That was what she wanted, that was why she leaned over his bed and smiled at him. That was why the row of shark teeth widened at his unsuppressed shiver of humility and fear. That was when she knew that she could sink her mandibles into his flesh and tear apart his insides. She wanted to taste him, to lick him, to explore his caverns and then fix him. Oh she wanted to slip one of those fluttering, black moths--that lied beating, dying, thriving inside her chest cavity-- inside his exposed heart.

I can bite you, sour apple monster wants you.

So he squirmed and watched her sink closer; heaving softly, her fake breast moving in a discontinued rhythm; until she was inches away, her teeth set, her mind fixated, and he was still screaming, screaming until he felt that sick, sharp prick and then--

"Thats enough now young man." They sunk the needler into his skin. The Red Nurse retracted; her eyes shone with that false glimmer of kindness as Dr. Klipspringer danced across the room.

She had tricked him.

She had stalked him, corralled him into the corner of his bed and then forced his mind to threaten suicide, while the damn orderly sunk that icicle into his arm.

He could see it now, the plunger pressed down, the long silver shaft turning transparent; see through, shifting until the silver blinded. It was shiny; pure wealth, pure hate. Its liquid was fire, warm, demolishing his muscles until he felt that hazy fog cover his eyes, and he knew that he was not the one lifting his arm. They had struck him, the orderly and Red Nurse and even Dr.Klipspringer who flowed across the room like an ashen, fantastic ghost to grasp the icicle and send his blood, his blood, pumping to the surface of the break. He was bleeding, he was bleeding, was he still screaming, was he still--

" Now that the patient is restrained we can continue group."

Yes group.

"Yes doctor." The nurse glowered. She twisted her head towards him and he heard another inhuman snap. Snap, snap, twist, and turn; snap and crunch. He had tricked him, turned his bed into a chair, his room into the circle. He hated the circle and the other Fixtures.

Damn group.

" Now Mr.Kurosaki, if you have settled down we can allow Mr. Tora to finish his confession." Dr. Klipspringer looked him over with his dark, beady eyes and Ichigo felt his eyes roll back.

His throat closed and swelled up as he released that groan that caused Mr. BellEyes to laugh.

The Red Nurse's verdict was forgotten, for all would forgotten when DR. Klipspringer commanded.

Dr. Klipspringer was on the board of directors. Graduated from a prestigious med school, fainted through gross anatomy, more fascinated with parading interns and donors than fixing the mental status of the Fixtures and Climbers.

There was a ghost on shoulder, Ichigo saw it out of the corner of his eyes and he found his fixation drawn to that memory. It whispered his name and he found comfort in the chill. Before him Mr. Tora was weeping, his face contorted into a snotty lump of fluid. The man was a climber--a fixable, returnable, appliance that could be reinvented and sent flying out-- all shiny and new to the outside world.

The man had been sitting there, crying, blubbering, pounding his fists and screaming his obscenities;mantras of self woe; screaming, screaming, crying and feeding his tales of crimes to the Red Nurse for years. Mr. Tora had been eroding there in that same dull, lack luster plastic chair for decades. His actions slow, painstakingly horrid as he dared to lift his legs, hands, chin, eyes, mouth, and voice.

He could remember when he first arrived, the condition of Mr. Tora. He had been thriving, thrashing, throwing his body in jutting angles; twisting, and spinning until he broke the arm of the orderly.

So spirited, so fantastically wicked.

Mr. Tora the fighting tiger, Mr. Tora the soulful and proud.

Ichigo, he, him, whatever the hell he was, had clapped. Sat up from his own dull chair and screamed as the ruby red blood hit the floor. So bright, so shiny, so exciting to have fresh, blood circulating throughout the room that he could not contain his reactions. He swooned.

Then, then the blood turned matted gray and Mr. Toar, Mr Tora flattered; the red death approached.

Mr. Tora met the Red Nurse.

And he Ichigo, Ichigo who was and is, dissolved into the background to remember.

She had seen him living, driving the doctors and orderlies away from his burning fists, and knew that he was tasty. She had approached him, cool, hands gliding like gel. Cool with that ready to sting venom. She appeared unquivering, steady, hard in front of Mr. Tora.

She had struck her claws into the soft, yielding flesh of the fighting tiger. That was all that if took for the man to flutter; falter; die. The red nails sunk deep inside and injected Mr. Toar with that cold metal. Mr.Tora jerked, and he; Ichigo, remembered with acid clearness, Mr. Tora's face morphing into a sick, painful smile before collapsing. His face melted off his skin, slipping over the bone; breaking into a million shamed pieces before it settled into a crying ball of mush. Wetness forever slinking down old cheeks.

God kill the diseased.

Mr. Tora had been stuck, glued to his seat since the Red Nurse signed his check in slip and planted him there. Wall ornament and wall flower, Mr. Tora the fading, fighting tiger. Most of the time his mouth relaxed soft; pure limp, perfectly congealed, lips hanging loosely over his dark gums, drool cascading like a snail over his chin.

Today Mr. Tora was telling his crime that landed him St. Christoper's Hospital for the Mentally Inferior.

" And then i struck, i struck i struck, and i took her!" Mr. Tora was a pedophile, in love with children. Children are our future and Mr. Tora was their past. Mr. Tora had been in love with a teenager, a "borderline" as the Dr. Klipspringer joked. Not quite hard and firm but still something that said tightness.

In other words she was almost legal.

Mr.Tora had been dating his girl, seeing her, screwing her, killing her. He had been poisoning her; gold cyanide laced with candy. Or perhaps it was candy lolly-pops laced with golden acid, cyanide, sweet poison. He had loved her, had crystals in his eyes.

Oh, but she had betrayed him.

Betrayed him ever so sweetly, gently, like melted gold sugar.

Ichigo didn't care to know the rest of the story. That was why his arm burned with that invidious pain. Oh Mr. Tora was fun to stare at, groan at, laugh at with a unmerciful sprig of laughter until all you could do was slip away into the black sleep. Sure Mr. Tora was fun to jest with but only with that stinging pain of looking into the future and seeing, seeing, seeing, your destiny sprawled out into a dirty chair. Stains and dried oatmeal crusted over clothes, arms smarting from the icicles, mind wondering far away to perhaps, look back and stare as well.

Nice afternoon thoughts.

But today Mr. Tora's tale was to real, to sad, to plain, to hallow, and to damn depressing. That was why he, Ichigo, saved Mr. Tora. Rescued the sniffling lump, from the Red Nurse.

He had screamed! Screamed when Mr. Tora was ejaculating his crimes! He had screamed until he saw white. He thrashed his arm about, and drove the Red Nurse to spring from her chair. He had laughed, thrown his head back and laughed until he knew he was doing more than laughing.

He was disturbing group, breaking that gilded veil that fell over the chained, shackled, condemned with his devil trombones and heavenly flutes.

He had created the spark.

That incendiary vibe that flew from his chest, his fighting laughter to strike. This vibe,this power sought out life in the circle. Soon all was cascading! all was trembling, mounting, exploding in a hushed upheaval of shrieks.

"God Save the Queen!"

"God Save The damned!"

"I'm tired!"

"Damn! Fuck Damn you all!"

"I said I'm tired!"

"God save..! God Save! God Save!"

"God save Ichigo!"

" I'm tired, I'm just tired..."

Those were the real confessions, the exalted, jolted feelings of the group. Penitence, contrite and sour, sweeped the room. Gleaned the souls of those insane, dementia, inflicted incarnations of human flesh, and fed. With strife and merriment they, the group, all fell to the vibe, the power, the distancing scream that separated them from their shells. The Red Nurse snapped, her head swishing side to side, spinning in such a mechanized oscillation that Ichigo stuttered with joy. She blew herself up, tall, threatening, to leap into action. With hands that fail to quell she attacked the patients, failed to retain order. Her was falling, twisting into a run down heap, rusting before Ichigo's glossy eyes.

He had started a revolution, a brief, fleeting period where everything was released from the medication, the hazy fog, the Red Nurse's clutches. With the group screaming, applauding, Ichigo cried with envy. Cried as he felt his eyes sink into his skull. His throat close off to constrict, air sputtering into wisp heaves. His body convulsed, soaking through his dull, lack luster chair.

He slipped, over the cold tile floor to climb the wall, liquid inch by inch. A wall flower with viscous eyes he stared through the fog. A sharp pain assaulted and he cringed in a brackish substance that was his body.

He was just faking.

This was all a hallucination of younger days.

He slipped from his place.

For all was a memory. The Ichigo that destroyed the peace of the group was a childhood wraith. A remembrance from when he was little. This was all a momentary snap back into the past as he stroked his brain in the movie theater.

He succeeded in remembering, failed in maintaining sanity of the present, and scored the prize of having a flash back.

His faint sparkling of memories of horrible confinement caused him fear becoming an unknown, or a worse, moth.

For a black, fluttering moth was not a bug. No, the moths he despised was the creatures that his past and the Red Nurse transformed you into.

A resemblance.

For this reason, his past plagued him. His memories the reason he ran screaming to a bastion of crumbling black- n -white to stare upon a dead screen at a no named actor.

He knew that all was in his head, that he needed to pull together to get over petty screaming!

Why was he screaming! Staring at an old movie screen in a deserted theater where mice and roaches were king!

He didn't know.

So he kept screaming, his body shaking from his flashback, his throat raw. He kept screaming until he heard the footsteps of the sandle hat coming. He kept screaming, throwing his eyes shut, tossing them back open in horror until then he noticed. While he was screaming, staring at the dead screen with a no name actor, the actor, his jackal, was starring back.

Jackal was out of place. Jackal was staring out into the audience.

No illusion, no mental crack. Just black eyes that should not have been turned, but were.

"God save Ichigo".

0-0-0-0

Not everything is cut and dry. Remember this an AU!


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four: I Used To Rule The World.

Thank you for those that reviewed.

Warning AU!!!yaoi

" I used to rule the world."

He thought he heard the soft whispering flowing through the speakers, settling like the fine dust upon the theater. With eyes staring down his, glazing through his tear, stickened lashes, his soul burning by the piercing touch of insanity, he knew he had lost it.

Dark fire snared him, convulse into a mishapen illusion.

The walls had enclosed around him, dementia choirs singing that mishapen lullaby.

Jackal kill him.

Jackal stop breaking character. Jackal.......

He felt the fear in his body, a knife slicing him in half. He was split, forward, backwards; into the lengthening future; trapped in past horrors. It was the wicked, wild, thoughts of seeing the unbelievable.

A being more out of place than him.

That was how he observed this phenenom. This out of place concundrum.

He swallowed his tongue over his pathetic shrieks and found safety that he had had a breakdown and that those black eyes were only fake. The unturning glaze, the two minute long glaze that echoed loud and clear. He was only breaking, his mind crumbling.

Jackal should not be starring out into the broken theater.

Yet....

Jackal with liquid black heat was scorching the theater. Jackal's head was turn, his mouth silent, his lips pursed in a unmistakable frown. Dawn was perfect, glued to her attachment. Her pale arms latched onto Jackal. Her head cascaded over his shoulder, lashing sweeping cheeks. The gray silhouted the white and black outline of her perfectly collasped figure.

Their frosty reunion, their homecoming.

If he had not just suffered from a "reoccurence" Jackal would be staring in profile into the blackness. Jackal would be embracing Dawn with faked cheeriness, imitancy an act.

Yet...

Jackal was locking eyes with his and breaking his character.

What was worse, he, Ichigo, questioned with a lingering taste of sarcastic bite in his head; going insane, or seeing your favorite movie breaking routine?

With trembling hands he gripped his seat. The moth eaten tweed bit into his skin as he thrashed his body forward, eyes unlocking from Jackal. Tears ran down his face, his screams mouting until he hit the wall, oyxgen need to support his lungs. With a gulping mouth he tried to quite his fears, the distant thundering of footfalls unnoticed, undetected, by his ears.

He could cout the miutes in his heads that his sceams had continued unbroken. In the theater time had no place, its bag was checked at the swinging doors, ntrace barred. Still eternity came to end as heavy had lashed out and slapped his shoulder. A fire scrothced his skin as his clothes shimmered hot red before cooling of. His screams sweeled to murmurs as he turned, his eyes wild, nd his mouth open tostare upon the sandal hat. the old man was starring at at wth a look of perflexed interest. His cane was wobblyingbefore his fgure as Ichigo turn to the old man as Ichigo's murmurs quited.

"Now, screaming at the top of your lungs is strictly forbidden Ichigo."

"But-but...I-I" He stammered out a nervous squeak. He had been caught. Worse, he had been caught by the one man that would understnd. Lunacy recognizes lunacy.

Strong hands descended upon his bofy. Hypontized he stared into the sandal man's eyes. Ichigo saw darknes, the beginning of the world, its end. He saw the shimering of the moon, the breaking of the dawn. He saw division of cells, life, death, rebirth. He saw the world in one instant. Then he saw nothing.

Ichigo stopped breathing, allowing nothing to consume him. In the distant, echoing far away he heard a rustling. A moth was beating its wings. Ichigo spasmed, felt the crunch of sweet pain in his spine.

Slipping down deep, deep, and depper still he though about Jackal's face.

Frozen...out of place in time.


End file.
